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KAY BAILEY HUTCHISON: Legislator of Love

By Brad Bailey |

I used to have a dark and dirty secret.

It’s still dark, and it’s still fairly nice and dirty, but it’s not so much a secret anymore.

The cat got out of the hag in a casual conversation. There I was, just innocently shooting the breeze with some friends-at least, I thought they were friends-when the talk swung around to one of those nitro-laden subjects Miss Manners says we should never discuss in polite company: politics. We hustled past free trade, made short work of Bosnia, analyzed Bob Dole’s attack on Hollywood, and wondered how to get a copy of Phil Gramm’s wink-nudge soft-porn epic. Was there a 1-900 number yet?

Then, as the talk rolled downhill, I experienced vuja dej, that haunting feeling that this had never happened before, and found myself helplessly blabbing my secrets, as if I was channeling for the ghost of de Sade or some other lecherous libertine from the 18th century; Bang, it was out: my secret love for the Honorable Republican Senator from Texas. The female one. Kay Baby H., my sexy solon. My friends, dangerous liberals all, hooted and jeered. I got ridiculed out of the room before I couild even mention my little thing for Ann Richards.

I’m not much on party politics- too much politics, not enough party-but since I run in predominantly Democratic circles, my phone has subsequently stopped ringing, and my social life is in ruins. As the rumor has make the rounds, even some of my male Republican friends have turned their backs on me. And the female Republicans are afraid to. Increasingly, in the wake of my gaffe, I turned to the Internet for human contact and companionship- until one day, a report of the incident turned up there as well.

Female friend of mine in Austin, Cherry K., a dyed-in-the-wool yellow-dog Democrat, inquired as to whether I could confirm this rumored menage of those three rather strange bedfellows: prurience and politics and Kay Bailey Hutchison.

I started to deny it, to avoid any further grief.

Then I looked at the photograph of Kay Bailey H. which 1 keep religiously affixed to the front of my computer, the one where it looks like she is smiling and thinking secret thoughts while worshipfully watching my fingers all day long as 1 type.

I realized that to deny my unslakable thirst for the Lady Lawmaker would constitute a callous betrayal of the object of my ardor, and thus 1 was forced to reply, “I stand guilty as charged. I do indeed lust after the Legislator of Love.”

Then I went on to make matters even worse by fleshing out in greater detail the specifics of one of my little fantasies for Cherry and 40-odd other correspondents on the Internet:

Since I reckon that Kay, the Babe-raham Lincoln of the Senate, hasn’t gained more than five pounds since high school, 1 picture my Sinful Senator wearing her old cheerleader outfit and eyeing me coldly, maddeningly as she reclines languorously in a pile of pom-poms on the floor ci the U.S. Senate.

1 come closer. We gently comprise a quorum. And then…I can’t go into too much detail, but I will say that it does involve serious violations of Robert’s Rules of Order, and ends with the Sergeant-at-Arms placing us both under house arrest. We are found guilty of solony, but the judge, feeling pity for our obvious love, allows us to serve out our terms together in a comfortable suite out at Seagoville.

My fascination with KBH is more than a passing sickness. You can’t just shame me out of it. This is a full-blown obsession, and nobody can talk me out of it.

1 have reflected on its causes at some length. Perhaps, as one of my few remaining friends has suggested, I go for the Iron Maiden type. You gotta admit, my Kay Baby is one tough cookie. She knows how to play rough.

Ask Ronnie Earle, who may never be the same after h is little tumble with her down in Austin, or Richard Fisher, who had the temerity to oppose her, and who, post-election, is just a shadow of his former self because Kay Baby H. took so much out of him. She got on him and dominated and dominated and dominated him until he was just so much Silly Putty at the polls.

Jim Mattox?

After his little set-to with Kay, he’s got to wear glasses

As for my ;elf, I cannot help how 1 feel.

When I gaze at those narrow, mean-lookin’ eyes and thin lips and perfect pearly whites, I am lost. Suddenly, 1 want to fly right to D.C. to play “Saucy Senator and the Improper Page.”

I want to tie her up with red tape, reform her naughty torts, then tax her deeply and severely, after which I want her to hold me, in contempt of Congress.

1 want to get onto her compromise committee in the worst way, so that I can conduct a full congressional probe of her appropriations.

I’ve got the Ways, and she’s got the Means. She’ll he my public servant, and I’ll be her Constituent o’ Bliss.

Perhaps my finally going public with all this is nothing more than a huge cry for help.

So be it:

Kay Baby H., HELP!

You’re driving me crazy with a Capitol C…

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